Page 22 of Dalliances & Devotion (The Truitts 2)

David could only shake his head in the negative as wetness dripped on her eyelashes. She sniffed a little and his heart cracked. “So you were just humoring me, both when we met and just now.” She closed her eyes for a long moment.

Everything inside him stilled at the comment and his face grew hot. How dare she doubt his attraction? More than attraction—unadulterated lust. And other feelings, ones almost like love. Fine, all right, love. Or at least what he’d believed was love in his naiveté.

He wasn’t a sterling example of goodness, but he wasn’t malevolent either. And he’d worked so hard to show her how he felt, even if he couldn’t explain it.

The bitterness was back, tenfold. Someone needed to rid him of her and all the heartache she caused.

Except not now, not until she was at least safe, because he owed her brothers that. More than that maybe. And, when she was nice to him, she was very difficult to abandon. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Amalia...”

“No, it’s fine.” She waved her hand at him a little before rising, her back to him once more. “The sky is darkening. We should get back to the station. We wouldn’t want to be late, would we?”

No, they’d not. And, once they returned and she retreated to her private rooms, he could do what he needed to do most of all. Get good and drunk—Will and Meg could handle the guard for the night by themselves.

Chapter Eight

Clop, clop, clop, clop, plunk. The silence in the cab accentuated every single creak, groan, and knock of the wheels. Amalia bit down a sigh. She’d not give David the satisfaction of the noise, of the confirmation of how humiliated she was. Again. The one constant in her life. He’d probably take it as proof that the kiss was a mistake. And chide her.

Amalia resisted sticking out her tongue and instead scooted as far away from his body as she could on the narrow, open seat, which afforded no privacy. Perhaps she should just stare at the horse’s ass. The literal one, not the figurative one sitting on her side, taking in the sights of Pittsburgh.

At least he was reading a newspaper, not managing her. No, he was ignoring her.

Which was worse.

After the kiss. After the beautiful, wonderful, awe-inspiring kiss that was better than the past, better than anything she had experienced. Better than Passover or Rosh Hashanah, and maybe if he’d kissed her like that on New Year’s...

No, she’d have made those same choices, right or wrong. Because he didn’t believe in marriage, and honestly, at this point she didn’t either. And she’d not have survived a mere shadow relationship with him. Especially back then. Especially after Simon died.

And now, the choices were gone. Or had already been made. There was no room for him in her life, not if she wanted respect, not if she wanted to preserve all she’d fought so hard to build. Not if she wanted what little sense she had intact.

Besides, a kiss was a kiss and not a declaration of love. Which was why it was hardly fair of him to make such a tempest of it.

Amalia picked at the pink pearl buttons on her cuffs in the cab. David’s chin rested on his palm as he thumbed the thick pages.

What could he possibly find so fascinating? All she could read was the score from the game between the Athletics and Forest Citys, less than titillating.

She glanced to her other side, staring at the shops dotting the streets as they drew closer to the river. Women and men with baskets and bundles darted back and forth as children played with hoops and balls near the edge of the cobblestones. All minding their own business, all absorbed in their own hectic lives. All probably very happy.

She squeezed the handle of her valise. It didn’t match anything but damned if she was going to leave it, and its contents, unattended. Or worse, with Will and Meg.

And David still hadn’t spoken to her. She folded her arms and glanced at him again, out of the corner of her eye. He gazed at whatever he was reading, not her nor even the glistening river junction, as they crossed the bridge.

Amalia ran her tongue over the top of her teeth. What could she possibly do now? Or say? What words could she use to make everything right—well, not right, but acceptable, again?

“Do you enjoy being a Pinkerton?” Not her most dazzling attempt at polite conversation, but it’d have to do.

“It suits my skills.” David adjusted his spectacles, eyes still down.

“Which ones?” She made her voice bright because what else could she do? Someone had to try for normalcy. Though why did it have to be her?

“Which ones do you think?”

Honestly? Who answers a question with a question? Though...she edged closer, was there a note of teasing amusement under the boredom in his voice?

Only one way to find out. She flicked a loose strand of hair off her face and drew nearer. Again. “Certainly not the ones you used to fire a weapon, unless those have vastly improved.”

He barked a little and stroked his spectacles. “No. That’s still your brother’s primary contribution.”

“Then the ones you use pushing a cart?” She pulled in her lips so not to laugh, as the memories of the tales he’d spun for her about how many times he capsized in the rain sprang in her head. He’d be so near at the table, gesturing wildly, his eyes twinkling.

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